With friends like these
by Mimzemmy
Summary: Sometimes you get stuck in your head. It's nice to have someone put some perspective on things.  Just a  few  tiny little drabble s , inspired by a very talented artist.
1. With Friends Like These

This was inspired by a wonderful girl and her glorious art. And it is to her that I dedicate this. Go on, take a peek, makes this ficlet much more poignant;

http: /rossoalchermes .tumblr. com/post/4881350196/you-shouldnt-get-sniper-drunk-spy (Just take out the spaces, FF is a little pithy sometimes)

* * *

><p>It was hell, if he was being polite about it. If he was being honest with himself, it was a fucking disaster, full of gore and guts and misery and fleeting victory, all to the tune of a Harpy screech for reasons unknown. It was worse than hell. It was super-hell. It was the hell of hells. It was... it was...<p>

He didn't know what it was.

Sniper sighed and adjusted his gaze, switched to a darker knot in the table's grain. It was the length of his thumb, with mottled rings and stark outline. It was a flaw in the rough-hewn, shoddy, company-issue table. It looked like an artery clogged with rusty dried-up blood.

He picked at it, dug a chipped nail in a gap between rings and tried to lever the heart out. The bloody clot out. His thoughts drifted yet again to the pointlessness of his existence. He was a professional. He had standards. They didn't include shooting the same nine targets every day, over and over in a macabre play. What difference did it make if his aim was perfect, if his kills were merciful? What did it matter, if he fought for his life, for his honour, for the money? It all meant the same, _was _the same. Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He'd almost managed to get the knot out when the soft scrape of shoe-on-concrete reached his ears. He tensed, but kept at it, viciously scraping at the wood. Splinters forced their way into the nail-bed, but the pain meant nothing to his current purpose. Defacing the mess table wasn't much of a purpose, but it was _something._

"I am sure there are more satisfying things to do to get back at them."

The table creaked as his new companion leaned against it, dipped towards the weight. Pinstripes filled his peripheral, Cologne his nose, and irritation his heart. Maybe there were, but he couldn't find them in this hell. The table surely didn't deserve the treatment but fuck if there was anything else. The splinters finally drew blood and he stopped, crossing his arms. As if that was enough to be rid of _him._

"Like?"

The pause was too significant, too heavy to be spontaneous. How long had Sniper been observed? How many sighs had he indulged in, thinking he was alone on his misery? Too many.

"Beating them at their own game, for one. Finding a way to being them down, for another."

"Don't know their game."

He had toyed with the ideas for a moment before rejecting them. He was a Sniper. He looked through a scope and pulled the trigger. It was what he did best. It was all he could do.

"It is not so difficult to understand, mon ami. They are testing their toys. Weapons and men, both."

The tabled creaked again as Spy pushed himself away and over to a cabinet. Glass clinked, and metal clanked, but Sniper barely heard it through his swirling thoughts. A toy. It fit. Men playing at toy soldiers. A child's game of no consequence. Boiled down to nothing.

"So be a toy, a weapon. Be the wooden toy soldier moving to their commands."

He could feel the heat at his back, Spy leaning close in a not-embrace. A gloved hand delicately placed a glass of something strong in front of him. Warm air ruffled his hair, escaping from lip too close.

"Keep yourself inside the shell. So that when the dust settles, it is you that has won, and they that has gained nothing."

It could have been air that brushed past his cheek, could have been lips, but it was empty air he caught as he turned. It didn't matter. A small smile curled his lips as he lifted the glass in a salute.

It was hell only if you let it be.


	2. Who Needs Enemies

I have decided to make this into a story arc, using the beautiful art of Miss Rosso as my inspiration. It might be a little... _presumptuou_s of me, but until her art I never really agreed with "A picture is worth a thousand words"

This is my my first foray into smut romance (for this arc, at least. Much more to come). Although, it is a part one of two. I'll update as soon as I have my writing bug back, so for now it just cuts off before.

The inspiration for this is here; (http :/ /rossoalchermes. tumblr. com/post/5056333650/get-out-of-your-slump-snipes) Just take out the spaces.

* * *

><p>It lasted all of a week, that new outlook he had been given. It lasted seven days, seven battles and sixty-three heads. He had tried to keep himself distant, tried to fit into that cold mask of 'weapon'. But it didn't 't.<p>

There was always a certain detachment that came with his line of work. There was no way one could look down the scope and pull the trigger on a fellow human being, a living, loving, hoping, dreaming person, and snuff out their existence forever without some kind of defence. You'd go crazy. With guilt, or with murderous abandon. Feeling made you human. Feeling too much made you a monster.

So there was that. But also he, personally, had his ritual. In the beginning he had nothing, no defence. Nothing to stop the guilt, the shaking sickness that hit him days after. Nothing to stop the nightmares. Feeling too much, he came too close to the monster.

But he learned. He didn't just receive a picture and pull the trigger. He was a professional. He did his research. Job, family, house, habits. Everything that dictated where his target would be and when, he knew it all. Had to know it all. And then he put it in a little black notebook. Along with observations. Everything that was this being was put into that book. So that when he pulled the trigger that being lived on in notes and words on paper, instead of in the dark corners of his mind.

It didn't help here. The book was filled with his messy script that told how the Medic would push his glasses up his nose with a gentle knuckle, unconsciously careful even with his hands clean of blood. How the Demo would still, swaying and bleary, set out a saucer of milk every night, though he was miles away from home. How the Scout cried out for his Ma in his sleep some nights. How the Engie kept a much-rumpled picture in his overalls that, when alone, he would pull out and stroke out the dogged-ears with a careful thumb. All that they were was in there.

But he couldn't put them to rest. Every day he pulled the trigger, and every day they would come back, screaming and angry. Ghosts in flesh with warm blood and beating hearts. He couldn't escape. He couldn't handle it without his ritual.

Sniper blinks as he came to himself, realised he had gotten so far as stripping off his vest and shirt. His thoughts had been derailed when he had unzipped his pants and saw just how far up his leg the blood had soaked. He groaned, soft and despairing, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Shit.


	3. Of Moping

Continuing my homage to Rosso and her art I bring you this; my first foray into smut romance (for this arc, at least. Much more to come). Although, it is a part one of two. It cuts off before the really good part, sorry. I'll finish it when my writing bug comes back.

Apologies, as always and for forever, for the written Aussie accent in this. I can't help myself.

* * *

><p>There was only so much moping he could stand. It was a horrible, contemptible habit, for not only did the moper suffer but so too did anyone who came in contact with them. Sniper was moping again, and team morale was flagging. They could see him alone in his nest, they felt his presence missing during meals, and more importantly they were being ground into the dust by the opposition for their lack of spirit.<p>

Spy took a moment to himself outside, letting the smoke trickle upwards from his lips while he enjoyed the soothing rush of nicotine. He imagined a dragon, lone and contemplative, and then snorted. He crushed the end of the cigarette with one elegant leather-toed shoe before he scaled the silvered wooden rungs to Sniper's nest. Since it seemed his talk did not get through the first time, now he must play maid and clean up. The things he did for his team.

Sniper barely stirred at the creak of his ladder, at the groan of his trapdoor opening, choosing to stay draped over the crates. The possibility of the enemy Spy visiting him after ceasefire was slim. And even if it was, a trip to the respawn was little inconvenience. He couldn't bring himself to care. The smell of cigarettes wafted to his nose while he studied the moon, and the soft _tch-chak_ of a balisong only confirmed his suspicions. Slim chance, but not impossible.

The moment and silence stretched on and on. Sniper's gazed had flicked from the moon to his kukri, to his ashtray, to his _bed_ and still there was nothing from the Spy. No taunting quip, no cold steel, no hot blood. Maybe his dark mind had conjured the sound. But even his mind could not fabricate that sharp scent of cigarettes and Cologne that now permeated the air. Sullen he threw a look over his shoulder, to find _his_ Spy behind him, looking up at the moon. Well. That was why he was still alive. But as to why the Spy was here...

He didn't care. The black book sat like a dead weight in his hands. A dead weight, a weight of the dead. The dead that would not stay that way, who came back to scream and cry and laugh in his face as they took their revenge with cheshire grins and groping hands-

"It is gratifying to know that it is your hearing that has gone," Sniper could feel Spy shifting behind him, the soft_ tch-chak_ of the butterfly knife added to the sharp reproach in that voice. "If it was simply your reticence to listen then you would have no excuse for why you are _dead_ now."

Cold metal pressed into the back of his neck, between vertebrae. It was the tang, thankfully dull, but it was a reminder that he was weak, vulnerable. That he had failed in his metamorphosis from man to weapon. That he was unfit for service and duty. That he was _unprofessional_.

The blunt tang moved from the back of his neck and around, until it nudged under his chin and force him to look up into dark eyes. Sniper stared back with growing irritation. This was his nest, his space, and given that he wasn't about to be slit from ear to ear he resented this intrusion.

"An' it's yer nose needing t' be stuck where it don't belong that dragged ya up here, righ'?"

"Actually," Spy tilted Sniper's chin higher, until the tendons were stretched and stark under his moonlit skin "My nose is exactly where it needs to be. You have been _moping_."

"So?"

"_So_, mon ami, your moping has lead to demoralizing of our team, and thus our losing streak."

Rage bloomed on Sniper's face, covering the shamed flush that rose at that accusation. He growled low in his throat and his lip curled, showing sharp canines.

"An' that's it. Yer blamin' me fer th' team's losses. Ya jus' waltz in here an' pin th' whole bloody farce on my head, 's that it."

"Non."

A cool glove stoked at his jaw and he had to fight to keep from flinching. A gentle thumb ran over his cheek as if to wipe away tears. It was comforting, calming and kind. And it was completely at odds to the implication in Spy's words. The sympathetic gaze cooled his anger and the confusion kept him docile. The knife left his chin and another hand came to cup the other side of his face.

"Then what're ya..."

Warm lips covered his and Sniper did jump then, wide eyes flicking up to the Spy's. Was this a strange sort of punishment? Something to build him up before he was broken down into... Two thumbs were swiping over his cheeks this time, and they dashed away the tears that had begun to roll down his cheeks.

"Do you know... your eyes are so blue when you are sad. A dull and stormy blue."

Sniper stared up at Spy, stared into warm eyes and at soft smile and felt something stirring. He did care... he _wanted_ to care. A hand was reaching out. He was being pulled from apathy and darkness and into a caring embrace.

When Spy's lips descended to his again he did not fight them. He leaned into that warm press and let Spy guide him. The gloved hands moved to his shoulder and the back of his neck, pulled him closer, deeper into the kiss. The soft leather left goosebumps in their wake and he swayed, feeling a plaintive moan escaping. It echoed in the too-still air, and was answered by a light chuckle.

"Come, let me brighten those eyes..."


End file.
